This is the end
by ally-kat312
Summary: The aftermath of various break ups. Warning: Contains depressing themes and deaths. Pairings include Gregstophe, Style, Creek, and Bunny. R&R


**A/N: Hey guys! So I had this idea in my head… I don't know why. But I did. So I wrote this angsty, depressing, bad-ending ridden thing. And I did a weird thing where I didn't say names until the very end. If it sucks, I'm sorry. If you're confused, order of POVs are Christophe, Stan, Tweek, and then Kenny.**

It was over. He said it was over. How, after all those years, could Gregory just up and leave like that? How long had they known each other, twenty years? Longer? Apparently two decades of memories meant nothing to Gregory. Apparently a decade of love meant nothing to him. He didn't want to face his mother. He knew she would only laugh in his face. Of course two men couldn't be together, she would say. God deems it unholy. That bitch and her bastard God. The thought of his ageless enemy made the Frenchman scowl. How had he not seen it sooner? This was another ploy of his. God had made his life miserable, and just when he thought Gregory would save him, God took his angel away. It was all his fault. It was always his fault.  
>"Zat beetch…" he muttered, toying with the lighter in his pocket. He had used it to light the last of his cigarettes, but now he had a better use for it. The local church wasn't far away. The brunette emptied his car of its gasoline and made his way to the old wooden building. The architecture would have been marvelous to behold if only there weren't crosses everywhere. God's symbols. His men praying inside. Gregory had been too close with God. So now he was gone. It was easy to coat the walls with gas, and climbing the building turned out it be easy enough. The slow small town life and fading twilight protected him from watchful eyes. Once the entire chapel stank of gasoline, he took a step back and tossed his lighter, igniting the whole building. It lit up like a Christmas tree, ironically enough. He felt himself smirk, then laugh. He had done it. He had finally gotten back at God. He had burned his house. Then he heard the screams. They were muffled and panicked, but there. What day was it? Oh right.<br>Today was Sunday.  
>As he watched, the entire roof caved in, crushing the people inside that weren't already burning. The Frenchman shook his head. No, he hadn't wanted this. Just to pay back God. He didn't want these deaths. Another light came from behind him, blue and red light. Sounds of shouting and the click of safeties being taken off. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around, his arms raised above his head. Police surrounded him. He was forced to his knees as someone cuffed him. Camera crews began to swarm.<br>"Tom I'm standing outside the local church where an entire mass of people have been burned by an unknown arsonist…"  
>He hadn't wanted this. He had just wanted to get back at God. No, he hadn't even wanted that. He had just wanted Gregory. That wasn't possible anymore. It was over.<br>"Je t'aime… mon amour…" Christophe said, the tears on his cheeks hotter than the conflagration that raged behind him. 

"Incredible what people do these days," the bartender said, watching the news broadcast.  
>"Yeah," he said. "Incredible." He stared at his reflection in the empty glass that stared back at him with sad blue eyes and messy black hair. There were bags under his eyes and his clothes were wrinkled from being slept in. No wonder Kyle didn't want him anymore. He put the glass down and pushed it towards the bartender.<br>"Another," he demanded. The bartender put down the glass he was cleaning and frowned to the blue eyed boy.  
>"I think you've had enough," the bartender said sternly.<br>"Another." He banged the glass on the bar to make his point. The bartender sighed and took the glass, refilling it with Jameson Irish Whiskey as he kept requesting. He grabbed the glass as soon as it was set back down, taking a huge gulp of the alcohol. A familiar warmth hit him once the liquid burned the back of his throat. He wondered what Kyle would say about his drinking. Probably nag him about his dependency returning. He felt himself begin to laugh, but soon it turned to hiccups which became sobs.  
>"Kyle… Kyle…" he cried over and over again. What had he done wrong? Hadn't he loved him enough? As the familiar, beloved face returned to his memories, he drank. He kept drinking, demanding, screaming, pleading for more when he ran out. He didn't want to remember Kyle anymore. That smiling face. Gentle touch. Loving kiss. Screaming voice. Shoving him out of his house, their house. So he drank.<br>"I… I think I should go," he mumbled after a while. He didn't know what time it was. The bartender offered to get him a cab, but he refused. It was dark outside. Had it been dark when he came into the bar? More importantly, where were his keys? He fumbled for them in his pocket, unlocking what he assumed was his car. He was too drunk to remember. He didn't want to remember. He ran something over as he drove off. Maybe it was the sidewalk. He was too drunk to see. Lights blinded him, glaring from their street lamps and signals. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. Where had the road gone? He blinked, then saw the road sign as he barreled towards it: DEAD END. Instead of the brakes, his foot found the accelerator.  
>"Kyle…" Stan sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing for the impact. <p>

A loud crash in the distance startled him. He squeaked and hurried faster into the dark alleyway. He hadn't been there in years, not since Craig had started looking out for him. But Craig wasn't there anymore. The alley extended farther than most people originally speculated. Then again, not many people had any reason to go down the alley. He quivered, nervous habits of tugging his hair and clothes returning as he started hearing them.  
>"Hey, the kid's back."<br>"He's back."  
>"Shaky as ever."<br>"Skinny runt."  
>"I told you he couldn't stay away."<br>"Your boyfriend gonna call the cops on us again?"  
>He couldn't find the courage to tell the whispers that Craig didn't care anymore. Instead, he kept walking until all light from the street disappeared. The only light back here came from lighters, flickering on to light a joint before going out. A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he nearly screamed before he covered his own mouth with his hands.<br>"What'll it be this time kid?" A hoarse voice hissed, a lifetime of drugs evident on the breath. He steadied himself, trying to calm his fluttering heart.  
>"C-Cough syrup," he stuttered. He hadn't stuttered when Craig had been there.<br>"It'll cost," the voice replied. He practically tore apart his pocket as he got out the cash he needed. It was from the coffee shop. He thrusted the wad towards the darkened figure. It counted the money, then handed him a box with a dark laugh.  
>"Enjoy."<br>He took the box and ran back to his house. Up his stairs. To his room. Locked the door. Inside the box were little brown bottles and he knew what each one contained. Just one for now, he promised himself. Just one. But one didn't blur his vision. He needed the lightheadedness, the break from constant paranoia that wracked his nerves. He wanted to talk to Craig. Ask him what made him not worth the trouble anymore. When had his twitchings gotten so out of hand that even Craig Tucker couldn't put up with it? He certainly wasn't twitching now. No, he was giggling, rolling among the empty bottles, fascinated with his shag carpet. The blonde didn't need Craig and his silly blue chullo hat. All of Craig's warnings had been stupid. This was the only way he could be happy now. He lay on his back and felt his eyes begin to close. He could still live in bliss. Then the up chuck made it's way into his throat. Oh god. He had to throw up somewhere. His muscles refused to let him sit up, forget inch to the toilet. His heartbeat rapidly increased. How much cough syrup? One bottle, two, twenty? He was going to choke on his own vomit. And no one would find him. Oh god. Oh Jesus. Christ. His breath caught in his throat as he felt himself choking, heard himself choking. The toxins of the liquid caught up to his heart too, setting it aflame. As if it wasn't beating fast enough.  
>"I sh-should've listen to him!" Tweek coughed, rasping his final breathes before his eye rolled back into his head. <p>

He passed by the crackhead alleyway and could hear laughter. Something about a gullible idiot who bought more than they could handle. He was tempted to go down there and relieve his problems by getting high, but he had promised Butters he would stop. They had both promised a lot of things. One of the blondes hadn't kept all of their promises.  
>"No… it's… it's better this way," he tried to convince himself. He wasn't good for Butters. Butters had had every right to leave. Happiness was somewhere else for them. Somehow he couldn't quite believe that. He still hurried past, delving further into the slums of the small town. He lived in that direction anyways. This was the side where lamps flickered and no one dared to go, especially not this late at night. Was it late? He checked his watch. This was the witching hour. Maybe very late, or very early. Either way, it wasn't a good time to be out in the streets.<br>"Hey there," a voice behind him said. He turned, and saw a girl. She was scantily clad, especially for the cold mountain climate, and had a cigarette burning between glossed lips. Blonde hair fell into her dusky eyes, which were half closed for seduction.  
>"Hey," he answered back.<br>"You're that poor guy who lives on the other side of the tracks, right?" she asked, taking a drag of her cigarette. He laughed.  
>"I don't suppose you live a much better life," he said. The girl shrugged, one of her straps sliding off her shoulder to reveal more skin.<br>"I could use some money," she admitted. A small smile played across her lips. "I'll be yours for the night. Just a few hundred." He couldn't. He might have been the king of sex, scratch that, god of sex at one point, but he reserved his power for one person and one person only- Butters. But… Butters was gone now. And here was this girl, blonde as his love had been, with face not as innocent but a body that would still respond to his touches. He took a step forward. Just a few hundred. He needed this. He needed a night of sweaty moans and sticky sheets to clear his mind. He needed another body in the bed beside him. He just needed… something to fill the gap.  
>"I'll pay," he said, "if you deliver." The girl smiled, flicking her cigarette away and walking up to him, pawing at his chest.<br>"Of course I will," she said. Her lips met his, and the kiss seared something in the back of his mind. Something that said this was wrong, this was why he was alone now. But he wasn't exactly alone. There was this girl here to satisfy him, just for the night. He only needed one night. He kissed back needy, hungrily, ready to take this girl right then and there. It wasn't like there was anyone around. His hands roamed, face flushed, but when he went to tangle a hand in this girl's hair, it was synthetic. He tugged at the wig to reveal soften raven hair. She blushed and tried to explain that she had heard he was attracted to blondes so she purposefully had the wig, but he silenced her. Of course this girl couldn't be Butters for one night. No one could. But he was still lonely.  
>"I'm sorry Butterbabe," he murmured before leaning down to kiss the girl again.<p>

**A/N: Jesus Christ I put so much suffering into one fanfiction. Wow. Anyways, I hope you liked it nonetheless. Read and review please!**


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